Faces on the Ceiling
by MissAnnThropic
Summary: On the fourth day after Jessica's death, Dean learned a very important lesson in the criterion upon which motel rooms should be chosen.


Title: Faces on the Ceiling

Author: MissAnnThropic

Spoilers: Premiere

LiveJournal: miss_annthropic(dot)livejournal(dot).com

Summary: On the fourth day after Jessica's death, Dean learned a very important lesson in the criterion upon which motel rooms should be chosen.

Disclaimer: None of it's mine. I'm just a sad little fangirl that spends her days writing fanfic and watching DVDs of her favorite shows :(

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On the fourth day after Jessica's death, Dean learned a very important lesson in the criterion upon which motel rooms should be chosen.

The first instinct Dean had when Sam lost his dream life in California was to get Sam as far away from the scene of the incident as possible. Not that he really thought being away from it would help Sam forget, but there had been policemen and firemen on the scene, and at the sight of anyone official the Winchesters bolted.

Sam didn't say much the first couple of days. He grunted answers that Dean had to interpret as yes or no, pressing himself against the passenger-side door and staring out the window. He didn't ask where Dean was taking him, and it was a good thing because Dean didn't know. He just wanted to get Sam somewhere safe. And that led to driving.

Dean figured, if they had a home, that was where he'd be taking Sam, but the Winchesters hadn't had a real home in twenty-two years. So Dean packed Sam up into the Impala and left town. It was the closest to home he could offer.

It was the second day before Dean could ply Sam into eating something. Third day before Sam finally slept. Why he'd been desperately fighting sleep Dean couldn't figure, but Sam had been fighting off sleep like his life depended on it. In better times, Dean would have teased him about Freddy Kruger only being in the movies (or at least so far as the Winchesters knew at that point), but the devastated, walking wounded look Sam had killed just about any attempt at humor before it was even past Dean's tongue.

When Sam finally crashed, Dean understood why Sam had fought the night so hard. Sam woke up drenched in sweat, panting and silently crying. Dean lay quietly in the other bed and pretended he didn't hear Sam whimper Jessica's name. He couldn't fake his way around being awake when Sam got up and turned on the television, so Dean clawed the sleep from his eyes and sat up the rest of the night with Sam watching some shitty old black-and-white movie marathon on TCM.

The next night they stopped late in Nowhere, USA. When Dean opened the motel room door, he looked up and smiled to himself out of habit. They were stuck with a single king-size, and over the bed was a mirror. Dean lamented the fact Sam was in no condition to tolerate Dean bringing a chick back for a little playtime and pushed Sam toward the bathroom. Sam was running more on inertia than willpower lately, and Dean found if he pointed Sam in a general direction and gave a nudge Sam would mutely go through the motions. It wasn't great, but Dean appreciated it could take time.

Dean knew that night why Sam tried not to succumb to sleep, but it was a losing battle, and Dean waited until he heard Sam's breathing change to the pattern of sleep before letting himself nod off.

He woke in the dead of night to Sam screaming.

Dean awoke with a jolt, eyes immediately scanning the dark room for danger. Sam was next to him, thrashing and screaming.

Dean looked around the room but saw nothing. There was light enough coming through the blinds from the outside parking lot that he could see every corner, and there was nothing there.

Dean turned to Sam to try and shake him out of it. Sam's eyes were locked upward, wide and panicked.

Dean looked up and a knot formed in his stomach. He understood. Sam had woken up in the middle of the night, seen a face looking down at him from the ceiling, and lost it. Nevermind that the face was his own, in the dark it was enough.

Dean physically dragged Sam out of bed, hauled him gracelessly to the floor away from the damn mirror, and called to his freaked out little brother.

"Sam… Sam! Wake up, Sammy…" Dean held on to Sam's shoulders, his neck, his face, grounding him and holding him and trying desperately to reach him.

It took forever, but eventually Sam calmed down. He was shaky and Dean would pretend the tears tracking down his little brother's face were just beads of sweat.

Dean wanted to get Sam back into bed (because god knew Sam needed the rest), but he looked once at the mirror over the mattress that put the occupants of the bed on the ceiling and wouldn't even consider it.

It was god-awful late or early, depending on your point of view, but despite that Dean packed up their things, put Sam in the backseat of the car, and started driving. Somewhere just before dawn, Sam lay down in the backseat and slept.

Dean drove.

The next time, when they stopped at a motel, Dean made sure the place didn't have mirror-canopy beds.

END


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